


The Legacy

by Scarlet_Starlet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Drama, Escort Service, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, References to Drugs, Scars, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24231598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Starlet/pseuds/Scarlet_Starlet
Summary: It is not hyperbole to say that Draco loses everything after the war except his life.Sometimes he wonders if that is more cruelty, instead of a kindness.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 13
Kudos: 32





	1. The Legati

**Author's Note:**

> This has sat in my drafts for about 6 months and I haven't posted anything in about 5 years... let's see if these writing muscles still work.

Thunk. Thunk. 

BANG. BANG. BANG. 

A chorus of voices, shouting “Reducto!”

The relentless racket of a team of Aurors trying to break down the heavily fortified and warded door still managed to put Draco’s teeth on edge, and despite being glamoured and heavily sedated, he knew he needed to find his way out of the bonds he was in, and out of the building into a hiding spot in Knockturn Alley.

Nevermind his glamour masking his identity (if he was lucky), his current position made his occupation very clear. It was likely to raise eyebrows and require at least a few questions, if not a formal interview - both of which were likely to eventuate in his identity being revealed. Not what he needed, at all.

Escorts, after all, are in the business of being discreet. 

_ Not that I’ve made it to the ‘escort’ part yet,  _ Draco thought.

It was true – this rendezvous in a dubious Knockturn Alley inn was to be his first client encounter. No doubt the client had seen the commotion from Diagon Alley and had rushed off without thinking twice. Truthfully, it’s what Draco would have done. 

Thunk, thunk, thunk, BANG. 

The thumping on the door was growing more insistent; Draco thought he could even hear the wood splintering. 

Aurors wouldn’t believe this was his first encounter; not with an extremely potent (and highly addictive) calming draught in his system, and not with the way he’d been instructed to strip, spread out on the bed, truss himself up like a chicken and leave his wand out of reach. 

_ “Nothing  _ too _ compromising,” the Madame had said. “Just a bit of bondage. You’ll be fine,” _

_ Stupid harpy, _ he thought viciously and struggled against the ropes binding his wrists and ankles. At least she’d recommended a venue with strong wards, no matter how run down it appeared. 

Struggling was hard work with the calming draught working to keep him lethargic and content. If only he’d mastered wandless magic.

He gave the wand a nudge with his mind. It lay immobile, out of reach. 

_ Fuck. _

To be found, helpless and bare… Draco had suffered many indignities in the last five years, but nothing quite so humiliating as this. He fought against the concentrated dose of potion and chafed his skin against the rope. 

_ Think, you imbecile. _

He needed his wand to disapparate, and he couldn’t do that from inside. He was on the second floor, and Aurors were breaking down the front door of his room. He’d seen a small window in the adjoining bathroom when he’d arrived and freshened up. The window was small, overlooking a dark, dank back street in Knockturn Alley. 

With a modifying spell, he’d be able to fit through the window. With a softening spell, he hopefully wouldn’t come to too much harm when he jumped out. And with a bit of luck, he wouldn’t be seen at all. 

By some miracle, Draco managed to free one hand, reach his wand, and slash the ropes with a quiet, “Diffindo.”

His thinking was sluggish and his movements were slow, but he had the clarity to cast a silencing spell on himself.

BANG BANG BANG BANG. 

He didn’t have time to put his clothes back on, and he needed to banish all traces of himself from the room. He did so, frantically while running into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. There was no furniture he could use to prop against the door in addition to the fortifying spell he cast, but it would have to do. 

As he transfigured a bath sheet and threw the newly transformed wizarding robes over his head and around his thin frame, he heard his room's door finally give way with a crash. 

He made short work of charming the window and thanked his lucky stars he’d paid close attention in Charms classes throughout his schooling years and for how skinny he was. It wasn’t often that he was grateful for the number of meals he’d missed since school.

“REDUCTO!” a man bellowed on the other side of the door. 

In a strange state between the artificial calm of the potion and the underlying, very real panic over Aurors, Draco threw himself out of the window, forgetting to cast a spell to soften his landing.

“Fuck!” he cried out as he hit the ground at full force and rolled. The transfigured robes had torn from his collar to his navel. Covered in blood, he tried to stand and crumpled as soon as he put weight on one foot. His ankle was almost certainly broken. 

The clamor from the inn was clearly audible from his current position.

_ Stasis spell, _ he thought.  _ Stasis spell and hide. _

He’d never been adept at healing magic, and his stasis charm left a lot to be desired, but it would have to do.

As he got to his hands and knees, shiny black shoes appeared in front of his eyes.

“Need some help there?” the owner of the shiny black shoes asked. His voice was deep and rumbly. He somehow sounded both concerned and amused.

“No, ‘m fine,” Draco said as clearly as he could. “Thanks,”

“Just felt like jumping out a window, then?” the man pressed. 

“Something like that,” Draco mumbled, getting to his feet, favouring his good leg, and avoiding showing his face. 

“Anything to do with the Aurors up there?” he asked casually. 

“Fuck off and mind your own business,” he snapped and promptly disapparated. 

||||||||||

“Fuck.”

With a jolt to his bad ankle that had shattered his weak stasis spell and left him crumpled on the cobblestones, he’d landed exactly where he’d disapparated from. Unfortunately, that was staring up into the eyes of the shiny shoe-wearing, would-be good Samaritan. Because life was so rarely kind to Draco these days, of course, his unwelcome companion was none other than Harry Potter, the youngest field Auror in a century.

“Fuck,” Draco repeated.

Potter smiled good-naturedly. “Temporary anti-apparition wards, I’m afraid,” he explained with a careless shrug. “Tends to help Aurors catch whoever is running from them.”

Draco’s heart sank in his chest. “Look,” he said. “I didn’t do anything wrong. They – you – it just startled me and I panicked.” 

He could be in genuine trouble now. 

Potter studied him, as comfortable and relaxed as he’d ever seemed. Like Draco was no threat at all. It was  _ infuriating. _ Draco had spent years cultivating the best ways to crawl under Potter’s skin; to be seen as a force to be reckoned with. Not that it had done him any favours in the end. 

_ As far as Potter knows, you’re a 110-pound random bloke who is wearing a transfigured bath sheet. You look like a nutter.  _

“Let’s go to St. Mungos to get that leg seen to. We can have a little chat while we wait for a Healer,” Potter said, finally.

“My ankle is fine,” Draco replied.

“Take a step,” Potter said.

“I don’t need your help.” Draco insisted.  _ Not now, anyway. _

“Take a step,” Potter said again, in a challenging tone. 

Draco hopped a step.  _ Fuck, _ his ankle was killing him. “Now can I go, or are we going to continue playing Potter Says, like children?”

Potter looked at him speculatively. Draco belatedly remembered that most people gave Potter the respect owed to the savior of the wizarding world. 

“Look,” he bit out, his pride smarting. “Healers are expensive and they won’t treat me anyway. My ankle will be fine. Just remove the wards and you won’t see me again.”

Draco would make sure of it. 

Potter’s expression softened immediately. “There are programs to help people like you off the street,” he offered, his voice suddenly gentle. 

That was the last fucking straw. 

“You don’t know anything about it, you trumped-up, oversized, egotistical  _ moron _ !” he snapped. He bristled, ready for a fight. 

But sometime in the last five years, Potter had – to Draco’s shock – somewhat grown-up. There was no hot-tempered jump to antagonism, no hex cast Draco’s way.

Potter simply sighed and sent a Patronus bearing a message up to his team. “He’s not a threat. I’m taking him to St. Mungo’s. I’ll do the standard interview there. Meet you back in the office.”

“I told you, I can’t-” Draco scolded as Potter moved toward him. 

But Potter paid no attention. He very slowly reached out and gently took Draco’s arm. 

_ He thinks I’m damaged goods, _ Draco realised. Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong.

With a loud crack, Potter apparated them both to St. Mungos.

||||||||||

“They won’t treat me,” Draco repeated, resisting Potter maneuvering him towards the Welcome Witch, who was sporting a decidedly less than welcoming expression. 

“Of course they will.”

He put on the breaks. “No, they really won’t. You don’t understand.”

Potter sighed. “Look, if you’ve picked up an … an  _ infection _ , or anything like that, these are the best people to help you.”

“I am not some... some  _ disease-riddled urchin _ ,” he hissed, offended, and Potter immediately raised his hands placatingly – releasing his grip on Draco. 

If Potter turned his back, he would probably have a chance to disapparate.

“Don’t even think about it,” Potter warned in an  _ I’m an Auror, don’t fuck with me _ tone. 

He opened his mouth to snap, but the Welcome Witch had rushed over, looking very pleased to see Potter. 

“Another charity case, Auror Potter?”

“I’m standing right here.” Draco griped.

She ignored him.

“A broken ankle, maybe some dependency issues, just the Tuesday regular,” 

She actually laughed at that. No wonder Potter’s head was so inflated. 

“A Muggle-born Healer, please,” Draco interrupted and she shot him a nasty look. 

“People like  _ you  _ are in no position to choose their own Mediwizard,” she barked. At Potter’s horrified expression, she quickly added, “Meaning, of course, pro-bono cases are seen by whichever Healers are available at the time.”

She was saved from any chastisement by a sudden commotion. A group of teens and their parents had spilled through the door behind them, yelling frantically. and the Welcome Witch looked between them, harried. One of the boys had tentacles sprouting from his face, and another sported the green webbed digits of a frog in place of his hands. The first boy’s tentacles were wrapped around the second boy’s neck, even as the adults surrounding them tried to separate them.

“Don’t worry, I know the way. Take care of them,” Potter said, and levitated Draco down a series of hospital hallways, ignoring his protestations to  _ put him down this instant _ !

“Has anyone told you that you have terrible manners?” Draco asked as they entered a ward signposted  _ Auror-reserved.  _ There were only a few empty beds, but Draco had read once that the specialist Auror wing of the Hospital could shrink and grow beds based on current requirements. The hospital wing at Hogwarts had a similar sort of charm, he’d read in  _ A History of Magic.  _

Potter deposited him gently onto a hospital bed and took a seat in an armchair by the side. He picked up a copy of the latest  _ Daily Prophet  _ and leafed through it, clearly not caring one iota for its contents. 

Draco couldn’t take his eyes off the front page. 

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy stood at the front steps of St Mungo’s, a small bundle cradled in Narcissa’s arms. Lucius looked more than smug… he looked restored to some previous, proud version of himself Draco had only ever seen in photographs. 

MALFOY HEIR BORN, the headline proclaimed. 

Draco thanked whatever deity existed that he’d taken a double dose of the calming potion. 

When he’d learned of the pregnancy, he’d smashed all of his scant belongings, downed a whole bottle of Firewhisky, and walked around Muggle London all night. He’d had the misfortune of encountering a pack of Muggles in what must have been their hunting grounds. He’d nearly died that night. He had yet another scar to show for it. 

“So,” Potter said because apparently, that was the best way to kick off an interview. Draco tore his eyes from the paper. “Are you going to drop that glamour?”

Glamours were imperceptible to 99% of the magical community. Apparently not to Potter. Draco really did have the worst luck. 

“Aw honey,” he said coyly, in an attempt to hide how he was rattled and off-balance. “You don’t like this model? I can be  _ anyone you want _ .” He punctuated the last few words by turning his hair strawberry blonde, then red, in a poor impersonation of Weasley. 

At Potter’s unimpressed face, he returned back to his original glamour, hair fading back to the mousy brown he’d chosen. 

“You never could take a joke,” he muttered, then added, horrified by his slip. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“No need for that,” Potter said. “I’m going to get us some lunch from the cafeteria. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Draco watched him like a hawk until he left. As the ward door closed behind him, he seized the newspaper. 

_ Chief Warlock of the Wizenmagot, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy and wife, beloved socialite Narcissa Malfoy have celebrated the birth of their son and heir apparent to the Malfoy title and fortune.  _

_ The Malfoy heir was born at 11:11 am on Monday and weighed 3.6 kilograms. The boy and his mother are said to be doing well. In keeping with wizarding traditions, the child’s name has not yet been announced, however, a source close to the Malfoys advised this reporter that the chosen name will not be a traditional family name.  _

_ “Lucius and Narcissa want a fresh start for their child. They don’t want their child’s reputation tainted by past wrongdoings or undesirable elements of the family tree, past or present,” the source advised, no doubt referring to the Malfoys’ disgraced and disowned firstborn son, Draco. _

Draco stopped reading and stared at the photo as the paper fell from his numb fingers. His parents looked healthy, strong and proud, restored to their rightful place at the top of society. Narcissa held the child protectively, and her bright smile at her audience turned to a cold glare as Draco tried to catch a glimpse of his brother’s face.

Even the door slamming open didn’t break his gaze from the paper.

“Auror Potter tells me you have a broken ankle. Is that right?” a young witch asked in a no-nonsense manner, breezing into the room as the door clicked shut behind her.

“If that’s what he says,” Draco replied flatly. She was the Healer; why was she asking him?

Even as she cast a diagnostic charm and his ankle lit up with a blue-green light, as he looked at her and recognised the dark features of the Greengrass line, he knew what would happen next. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t help you.”

The witch’s diagnostic charm had tapped the archaic disownment curse, enveloping and absorbing the light in blackness. 

“I know that,” he said, wanting to sound annoyed. He just sounded tired. “I told him you wouldn’t be able to treat me.” 

“I have a little sister and we have no one else. She needs me,” the witch said softly.

“I’ve heard it before. If I were in your shoes, I’d do the same thing you will.”

She looked pityingly at him and walked to the door. Strangely, she didn’t seem to be able to bring herself to open it., but seemed to be wrestling with herself. “I became a Healer to help people,” she said. 

“I’ll wait for a Muggleborn healer,” he said.

Even so, she turned and walked back to him. 

“Don’t be an idiot,” he warned her sharply.

“There are no Muggleborn Healers left,” she said tonelessly. “It takes seven years to become a Healer. It will be two more years before there are any,”

Her tone told him that she’d been at St Mungo’s when the Death Eaters had visited the hospital on a bloodthirsty spree. Whether she’d been luckier than her colleagues in terms of adequate hiding places or her bloodline had spared her life, he couldn’t say.

It had been one of the worst massacres of the Dark Lord’s reign. The wards at St Mungo’s had been set to call Healers based on the patient to healer ratio and severity of injuries. Healers on call had travelled to work to help their patients, unsuspecting of what awaited them. Shortly thereafter, the remaining Healers - even those on their days off had also been notified by the wards that they were also needed. Many St Mungo’s staff had travelled to work, never to step out the doors of the hospital again. The fortunate had hidden. The less fortunate hadn’t hidden well enough, or walked directly into an ambush.

At that point, Draco had disgraced himself sufficiently in front of the Dark Lord to have been on house arrest within Malfoy Manor himself. 

That’s how he knew that the least fortunate of the massacre hadn’t died at St Mungo’s. They’d lived for much longer. And there had been nothing he could do to help them.

“I became a Healer to help people,” she repeated. She turned her wand back on his ankle and began casting a series of healing charms, eyes narrowed in concentration. 

“Don’t,” he gasped, but it was too late. 

The dark shroud around his ankle coursed towards the beams of magic from her wand. Tendrils of black magic curled around her spell and started to shroud her in darkness. 

“ _ Stop _ ,” he yelled. She noticed the tendrils and her mouth opened in a silent scream as her spell faltered.

“You’ll have to hurt me badly,” he told her. “It’s the only way it will leave you alone.”

But Healer Greengrass shook her head. 

“ _ Idiot _ ,” he hissed. “ _ Imperio _ . Cast the Cruciatus Curse on me. Now!”

The white-hot pain of knives searing through his body struck him instantly. His nerves were on fire; the scar tissue on his chest was surely ripping back open; even the scream ripped from his throat was agony. Spots danced in front of his eyes as the agony engulfed his entire body, like flames dancing and licking his skin.

The door slammed back open and Potter rushed in, casting a full body bind on the witch as Draco’s vision turned to black. 

  
  


||||||||||

  
  


He came to with big green eyes pressed to his face. 

“Move,” he demanded, rolling over just in time to expel the contents of his stomach onto Potter’s shiny leather shoes. The pain of the Cruciatus Curse had ceased, but he’d be shaky for several hours as he recovered. He’d inflicted more damage on his ankle by thrashing in pain; it throbbed insistently.

The Greengrass witch was being interviewed by another Auror, but she was still bound.

“It wasn’t her fault,” Draco said loudly.

“No, of course not. You  _ wanted _ her to cast the Cruciatus Curse on you,” Potter said sarcastically. “You’re safe. She can’t hurt you anymore.”

“Don’t you  _ read _ , Potter?” he snapped. “It wasn’t her fault. She tried to help me, but she couldn’t. It was the only thing to do, so I made her do it,”

“It’s true, Potter,” the other Auror said, dropping a vial of what Draco presumed was Veritaserum back into the holster around his waist. He cast a pitying look at Draco, picked up his wand, and revealed the last spell.

The letters  _ Imperio  _ still hung in the air as the Auror handed his wand back to him. Surprising.

“I won’t press charges,” the witch said. “He was only trying to save me.”

“From  _ what _ ?” Potter insisted. 

The room went quiet. It wasn’t talked about openly. 

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of the Legatum Curse,” Draco said. 

It was a challenge. He knew Potter had. 

In his final days as Draco Lucius Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy title, fortune and lands, he’d written to Potter and begged him for help. 

At the time, he’d thought it the lowest moment of his life, but waiting for a reply had been so much worse.

Even worse were the following letters he’d sent – he’d written twice more, each time on the anniversary of his disownment, before giving it up as a lost cause. 

He’d never thought of Potter as cruel before. He knew better now. 

“I’ve heard it mentioned,” Potter said slowly. “None of the particulars.”

_ Liar, liar, LIAR,  _ Draco thought. He pursed his lips and flicked his wand at his swollen, bruised ankle. “ _ Episkey _ ,” 

The bones in his foot audibly cracked and ground together as his inexpert spell slowly, torturously began to heal his ankle. The pain distracted him from the flash of murderous rage that had raced through his veins and turned his vision red. Truly, he’d seen red.

Turning his gaze back at Potter, he began to talk slowly. He tried to use the tone of a lecturer; passive, lofty, purely academic. 

“It’s an archaic pureblood spell, of course, but I’m still surprised  _ you _ haven’t heard of it, Potter. Aurors are so often well acquainted with those affected by the curse. I’m sure some of your school chums have heard of it,” he couldn’t resist throwing in. 

“Certainly, some of them have been affected by it.

“ _ Legatum _ , from the Latin; legacy. The spell ensures the ongoing prosperity and legacy of a family by means of passing any and all past wrongdoings and dishonour onto a single family member.”

His voice shook at the end of his sentence, and he poured himself a glass of water. Finally, the calming draught was wearing off. 

“The …  _ beneficiary _ , I suppose, is renounced by their family _.  _ They’re stripped of surname, title, family ties, and fortune. In normal circumstances, they’ll never be permitted to speak to their family again. 

“I’m sure you won’t be shocked to hear that the curse gained popularity again after the war. Even so, the disownment is only part of the curse. It’s catching, you see. No afflicted witch or wizard can befriend or receive help from another pureblood without putting  _ them _ in jeopardy of the curse.”

Healer Greengrass spoke then, quietly. “Our society can be… unforgiving.”

“What about receiving help from half-bloods or Muggleborn witches and wizards?” Potter asked slowly. 

Draco and Greengrass shared a look. The moment of camaraderie made something twist inside of him. It had been a long time since he’d spoken to anyone who’d shared an upbringing similar to his own. 

The dark shroud crept out from beneath the skin of his hand, menacingly in the direction of the witch. She broke eye contact immediately.

“I am a well-respected pureblooded healer,” Greengrass said. “I have sworn to treat and heal. I’m very good at my job. Even so, some of my Muggleborn and half-blood patients are afraid of me. Some of them even spit on me.”

She waved a hand in Draco’s direction, careful not to look his way.

“The Legati are pariahs, on the fringe and at the very bottom of wizarding society. When their own previous social circle can’t interact with them… ”

“How many are there?” Potter asked.

Draco shrugged. He didn’t feel like talking anymore.

“Accounts vary,” Greengrass answered slowly. “The practice has almost disappeared again now that the trials from the war are over. But purebloods are not generally well connected outside of their immediate circle, none of whom can interact with them once they’re cursed. Most eventually end up here in the morgue.”

Draco waved his cup of water in a mocking toast. “The family name must live on. To the Sacred Twenty-Eight and their archaic bullshit,” 

“I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy,” the other Auror said. 

There was a long silence. 

“No,” Draco said eventually. “I don’t suppose you would.”

He couldn’t bring himself to look at Potter. He was simply too tired.

  
  


||||||||||

  
  


In the end, the other Auror had freed Greengrass from her bonds. She’d carefully told him that the patient’s ankle would heal with rest and that she wouldn’t be back in the room until the next day. 

Draco admired her craftiness there; she’d told him to rest overnight and given him permission to stay, both without telling him so directly and also without offering him shelter outright. 

He had nodded his compliance, rolled to face the opposite direction, and tried to go to sleep. He didn’t often get to rest in such safe places. He was confident his glamour would hold up, though he’d need to refresh it when he woke. 

The aurors had disappeared after a short, hushed conversation in the doorway and an awkward farewell from Potter.

“Er,” he’d said, rubbing the back of his head. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

“You really needn’t bother, Auror Potter. I’ve made it this far.” he’d retorted stiffly, not bothering to look back. 

“All the same,” Potter had said quietly. Then he’d turned and slunk out the door.

_ Yes, go lick your wounds now that you know you’re not the great hero everyone thinks you are.  _

But this fury was a wasted opportunity for rest. 

Draco closed his eyes, forced all indignation and resentment from his mind, and fell asleep.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco hadn’t cried since that awful night – the night he’d learned he’d have a younger sibling; the night he learned he would be a Legati for the rest of his life; the night he’d been cut and left for dead – but he felt like he might at that moment. 
> 
> As soon as Potter found out who he really was, he’d withdraw any offers of help. Draco simply refused to give him the satisfaction.

Draco’s wakeups were so often disorientating, semi-familiar surroundings startling him as he struggled to remember where he was and if he would be safe for much longer. The Legati didn’t tend to stay in one place for too long.

Like Greengrass had said, most pureblood avoided them like the plague, but there were a small but dedicated number of halfbloods and Muggleborns who sought his kind out for sick and twisted games.

The Dark Lord’s penchant for violence still lived on; just not in the community he would have expected. 

For Draco, waking up in an otherwise empty ward was certainly a more peaceful experience. The sheets were warm and clean and soft against his skin, and despite the time (past 10 in the morning, he suspected), no glaring sunlight bothered him. It was damn near luxurious.

His stomach growled and he realised breakfast awaited him, already on a tray levitating above his bed. He sat up, noting that at some point during the night, his robes had transformed back into a bath sheet.

He took stock of his injuries as he gulped down gluey porridge and weak, tepid tea. It was _divine_. Even so, he forced himself to eat slowly. Too much, too soon, and he’d make himself sick.

His ankle was tender, but he would be able to walk. 

During his sleep, his rage had dulled to a sick twisting in his stomach; the familiar, devastating despair that was waiting to consume him. That was the far more dangerous injury.

But it wouldn’t get the best of him. Not today.

A lock of his hair fell into his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose. The jet black hair of his glamour had already faded away, leaving platinum blond strands tickling his nose. That was sooner than he’d expected, and he needed to sort it out before anyone saw him. 

Draco picked up his wand and drew the familiar runes. It was advanced spellwork and taxing. All the same, it was well worth the expenditure. If nothing else, he still had a modicum of pride. No one needed to know that Draco Malfoy had sold his body – even if the service itself hadn’t been rendered, and his coin purse was all the lighter for it.

His glamour in place, he moved to the other vital mask he required; the persona. 

The face Draco wore now didn’t have a name. He didn’t have a story, other than being another unfortunate Legati. What he did have, under normal circumstances, was skin as tough as a dragon’s hide, an unflappable calm, and a pragmatic, practical nature. He was nothing like Draco. The only thing they had in common was the biting sarcasm that neither he, nor the black-haired wizard seemed to be able to set aside.

Yesterday’s excitement had brought Draco closer to the surface than he was strictly comfortable with. That wouldn’t do – he was determined that wouldn’t happen today.

The wizard that was not Draco finished Draco’s porridge and tapped the teacup with his wand for a refill. A free meal was a free meal. As he sipped the marginally warmer cup, someone cleared their throat at the door of the ward. 

Draco froze, sighed, and then smiled.

“Ah, Auror Potter,” he said, as warmly as he could. “True to your word.” 

Potter smiled tentatively from the door and came to sit in the plush armchair he’d lounged in the previous day.

“You seem better,” Potter observed. 

“Fit as a fiddle,” Draco smiled. It was a little too sharp.

_Get it together,_ he scolded himself.

“And I see you’ve had breakfast,”

Merlin’s beard, the man was a conversationalist dunce. 

Draco Malfoy, heir apparent, had possessed the gift to lure almost anyone into sparkling conversation and witty repartee. Draco Malfoy, Legati, had lost that particular sharp edge.

“Yes,” Draco agreed. 

Isn’t that a strange feeling to be agreeing with Potter. He honestly can’t remember the last time he had.

“So,” Potter began. “If you can drop that glamour, we can begin,”

“Not on your life,” 

That felt more natural but what followed was anything but. Rather than biting back, Potter leaned forward, elbows on his knees and fingers crisscrossed.

“I promise you that no one in the Ministry is after you,” he said earnestly. “We’re after Euph suppliers. I need your identification and then I can trace your previous contacts to find who is responsible for production and distribution. I can even get you into a rehabilitation programme.” 

“I don’t take that shit,” Draco replied immediately. “And if I did, I’d brew it myself,”

“I don’t mean to be indelicate,” Potter said, and then drove on, like a bull in a china shop. “But from what I learned yesterday, it seems like you might not always have the means to brew that potion. The ingredients are expensive; the sopophorous beans alone -”

“I don’t take it.”

Potter sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose and displacing his glasses.

“Help me understand. Yesterday, I found you staggering around Diagon Alley in a transfigured bath towel, barely able to stand by yourself.” 

“My ankle was broken, you insufferable git,” Draco snarked. 

“With a broken ankle you came by because you’d jumped from the second story of a building to get away from legal officials,”

Draco hummed noncommittally. 

“Did someone hurt you? Did someone get away?”

“No. I was alone.”

“The room rates are cheap in Knockturn Alley, but they’re not a charity.” Potter said disbelievingly.

Draco rankled. He remembered taunting Weasley about his secondhand robes and lack of fortune. Potter wasn’t even _trying_ to be unkind. This must be what the Muggles called karma.

“I was to meet someone, but your lot clearly scared him off. He’d booked the room in advance.” 

“You can’t deny you weren’t under the influence of something.” Potter pressed, returning to his original line of questioning. “You were slurring your words.”

“It was just a standard calming charm,” Draco was forced to admit. 

Potter didn’t wait a beat. “And why did you cast that charm?”

“That’s my affair,” 

Potter clearly knew why Draco had been in that room. He just seemed to be stuck on the charm. 

For several long, uncomfortable moments, Potter looked at Draco, puzzled. Finally, his expression softened.

“It was your first… meeting,” he surmised. 

Draco wanted to throw his porridge at Potter’s stupid, scarred head, but sadly the tray has vanished during the course of their conversation; there were still a few spoonfuls left. 

How could someone so obtuse stumble upon the truth so quickly?

Draco’s lack of response seemed to be confirmation enough.

“No wonder you cast a calming charm,” Potter said slowly. “You don’t need to do that, you know.”

The soft, gentle tone in conjunction with the tone-deaf words hit an exposed nerve. 

Draco had heard rumours that Potter’s Muggle family had been awful monsters who had starved him for days on end; he knew from what Potter said that wasn’t entirely true. Anyone with a powerful need to eat and a lack of options available to them would eventually come to the same conclusion: the world’s oldest profession was indeed necessary.

Draco hadn’t cried since that awful night – the night he’d learned he’d have a younger sibling; the night he learned he would be a Legati for the rest of his life; the night he’d been cut and left for dead – but he felt like he might at that moment. 

As soon as Potter found out who he really was, he’d withdraw any offers of help. Draco simply refused to give him the satisfaction.

He took a deep breath and composed himself. _This too shall pass._

“Auror Potter,” the wizard that was not Draco said, respectfully. “Do you have any further questions for me or can we draw this interview to a close?”

Potter looked at him in that new, unnerving, unwanted way – gently.

“Let’s keep this off the books,” he said like he was doing Draco a favour; he probably was. More details about his meeting were unlikely to be viewed favourably by the ministry, particularly if his true identity came to light. Draco didn’t think he could handle that. 

“Thank you,” he said softly, nearly choking on the word.

Potter handed him a card embossed with the Ministry seal. _Auror Potter, Order of Merlin_ was burnt into the stark white stock. 

“If you change your mind, contact me,”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Draco said. But the treacherous, hopeful, _stupid_ part of his heart had noted it was a different address. Draco had only ever owled Grimmauld Place before. “All the same,” he continued, shrugging and pocketing the card like it meant nothing to him.

“May I side-along you home?” Potter asked suddenly. 

“Is that standard procedure?” Draco asked. He truly didn’t know, but he’d prefer to avoid it. 

“It depends on the case,” Potter hedged.

_So that’s a no. You’re a terrible liar, Potter._

“Regrettably, I’ll need to decline.”

All Draco needed was for Potter to fuck off and then he could transfigure something else into robes until he could make it back to the dingy studio flat he’d manage to cover a few weeks of rent for. 

“Very well,” Potter said, standing and brushing off his slacks. “I hope I don’t see you on any more adventures like yesterday. You know how to reach me,”

“Yes, it seems I do.” 

Potter left brusquely, drawing a small package from a pocket and leaving it on the chair. Draco didn’t call after him. He could tell the idiot had been trying to be stealthy. 

Potter had given him robes (expensive robes – Draco still knew quality workmanship when he saw it) and 100 Galleons - enough to get Draco through at least two months at the very least. 

Inside the package was another of Potter’s cards, the blank back of it inscribed with a handwritten note. Terrible penmanship, so he’d written it himself.

_Let me help you. Let's have dinner._

||||||||||

22-year-old Draco often wanted to go back in time to shake some sense into his 17-year-old self. But of course, that was strictly forbidden. There was practically no way for anyone branded Legati to get their hands on a Time-Turner, anyway; not since an incident in the 1700s.

A disgraced warlock had commandeered a Time-Turner, returned to the time before he’d been disowned, and murdered his own father. He’d managed to get away with it for several years, living in his altered timeline and reaping the benefits of being returned to a full-functioning member of society. But eventually, the ripples of his timeline alterations were felt and he’d been found out. 

The timeline had been corrected, of course, but it had taken many years and Arithmancy experts. The Legati in question, once restored to his original timeline, had spent the rest of his days rotting in Azkaban. 

Draco had never wanted to return to the point of his disownment to hurt anyone. He just wished he’d been _smarter._

He’d had no idea what he was doing in the beginning, of course.

While he’d had the foresight to pack some personal effects, he’d been in shock; at the time, no one had invoked the curse in over 200 years. At 17, Draco had packed like a child running away from home, taking as many of the nicest robes he could pack; his Nimbus 2001; and his owl. His robes were looking threadbare these days. His owl was wilder than not, with Draco having little need for correspondence. His broomstick, long ago sold, the profits quickly disintegrated into nothingness.

In his dingy studio flat in East London, with 200 Galleons in front of him, wearing a new set of fine robes and sipping a cup of tea, Draco almost felt… reborn.

It was perhaps an understatement to say that Draco had learned to manage money well. He knew from experience that 200 Galleons would not last forever and he couldn’t go back in time.

It would not sustain him for long. It would run out. But Potter had given him something Draco hadn’t had in a long time  – time and choices. Hope, even.

||||||||||

The Madam hadn’t been happy with Draco, but when he’d pointed out that the transaction hadn’t been completed because of his almost-client’s involvement in narcotics, she’d let it go and agreed to his request to meet. 

After all, Bathilda might indulge some of her regulars’ less than strictly legal desires; she needed Draco to keep his mouth shut, and he needed a way to earn. Those were reasons enough for them to meet at The White Wyvern a fortnight later, once he could trust his healed ankle to carry him through Wizarding London.

Bathilda was already seated by one of the large windows with a tall glass of Firewhisky, a quill and a notebook in front of her when Draco stepped in from the cold outside, snow already melting in his glamoured mousy brown hair in the warmth of the pub.

“Madame,” he greeted her, with a slight bow. 

Childhood etiquette lessons had served him well in his few dealings with her; as the sole proprietor of a somewhat shady establishment, it was something of a novelty for her. Nonetheless, it was only that; a novelty. She smiled tightly at his approach and gestured for him to sit.

He slid into the seat across from her and waved away the approaching barkeep. 

“Madame, I’d like to revise the scope of my original… understanding with you. No… no _meetings_ at hotels,” he began. She was the kind of witch who appreciated directness. “I’ll do the wining and dining, that sort of thing. But I don’t need those other meetings now.”

She’d raised an eyebrow.

“There are very few offers of that kind, and I’m afraid they must go to my more experienced contractors,” Bathilda replied, her wrinkled hands coming to cradle her Firewhisky. A calculating expression crossed her face.

“On the other hand, showing your real face would elicit many offers. You would make good money. However, you must know those meetings would be very public to humiliate you, or extremely private in order to harm you. You’d make more money showing your face, but I could not guarantee your safety. Either way, I can not give you what you want.” 

Draco started. He’d never revealed his true identity to Bathilda – he’d never even informed her he was wearing a glamour. 

“Yes, dear, I know who you are. I wasn’t born yesterday and those Malfoy mannerisms are hard to miss,” 

Draco took longer to recover than he liked. He wished he’d ordered that drink now. 

“How would you like to proceed?” he eventually asked. 

“I assume you’re not amenable to showing your true face?” Bathilda asked. At Draco’s flat look, she nodded decisively. “When you’re ready, we can resume our original agreement.” 

The elderly witch took a small sip of her Firewhisky, took up her quill, and crossed out an item written in spidery handwriting on the aged parchment in front of her. Draco nodded woodenly, but Bathilda was already done with him. 

“Good day, Madame,” he said and bowed again, as he’d been drilled to pay respect to his elders as a child. All those archaic pureblood rules… they hadn’t served Draco well, after all. 

He turned on his heel and left the Madam scrawling in her notebook, paying him absolutely no attention.

||||||||||

Apparently Draco hadn’t suffered enough indignity for today. 

As he descended the stairs outside The White Wyvern, he spotted a familiar figure leaning against the wall, strong arms crossed in front of his chest.

Draco paused on the steps and weighed turning tail back into the tavern, but that would look more suspicious.

There was only one way back to the main strip of Knockturn Alley, and it was through the alley where Potter was waiting. Chances were that Potter wouldn’t remember this nondescript face in any case. It was precisely the reason Draco had chosen it in the first place. 

He ducked his head, made his way down the stairs, and muttered a respectful “Good evening, Auror,” his eyes on the floor.

“Is that any way to greet a friend?” Potter asked, amused. 

Draco looked up sharply. “Is that what we are?” he asked incredulously. 

He really should have had that drink. He was an affectionate drunk; that’s what Pansy and Blaise had told him, a lifetime ago. Drunk Draco could have been friendly with anyone, even Potter. Especially Potter. _Shut up._

Drunk Draco made poor decisions, and that’s why there was no Drunk Draco.

“We could be,” Potter was replying.

“You don’t know me.” 

“Not yet,” Potter agreed, too quickly. “Why don’t you drop that glamour so I can get to know you?”

Draco stared at him. “Are you following me?”

Potter held his hands up in a placating gesture. 

“No, I swear. I was passing through I thought I saw you in the window. I just er,” Potter stumbled. “I wanted to see how you were.”

“Never better,” Draco replied, tightly. 

“Good… good.” 

There was an awkward pause, then Potter gestured back at the snow-laden window, the warm light inside flickering as patrons revelled inside. 

“I really was just passing through and caught sight of you. But I did see who you were sitting with, and I’ve got to warn you, that witch is on the Ministry’s radar.”

Draco frowned. “Far be it for me to tell an Auror how to do his job… but I don’t think you’re meant to warn people about that sort of thing,”

Potter shrugged. “As I said, I want to do is help you.”

“Undoubtedly,” Draco drawled. “It’s got nothing to do with cultivating informants and so forth. I’m not a moron, Potter. You’re clearly here to collect on the debt I owe you. Might I be so bold as to request to be questioned somewhere less obvious than under the nose of one of my few potential employers?”

Potter scowled, but he looked hurt more than angry. 

“All I want to do is help you!” he exclaimed.

“Why start now?” Draco asked rhetorically, holding his arm out stiffly. “If I am to be interrogated, I would prefer somewhere more private than an alley – perhaps oh, I don’t know, the Ministry – but it is, of course, your prerogative, _Auror_ Potter.”

“You are impossible,” Potter said. 

It was only 6pm and Draco was exhausted and had said too much. His stupid fucking mouth, always running away on him. Stupid fucking Potter, always distracting him. At least his ankle didn’t betray him.

“Am I under arrest?” Draco asked, tersely.

“Of course not.”

“Then good evening, Auror Potter,” Draco repeated and walked away.

“You know where to find me. Let's have dinner,” Potter called after him, his voice reverberating in the dark night.

||||||||||

The baby’s name was announced in _The_ _Daily Prophet_ several weeks later. _Victorson_ – that was Lucius’ choice, of course. It was a brazen reminder to everyone that he could do as he pleased. That he’d outwitted the Ministry and the Wizarding World at large. That there was _nothing_ that Lucius Malfoy couldn’t get away with. 

Draco had never thought of the child as his little brother until he saw the name. And then, before he knew it, he’d apparated to Wiltshire, leaving the rest of his newspaper unread and his untouched cup of tea to cool in his empty flat.

He lingered by the wrought black-iron gate, unable to step foot upon the grounds. 

Draco looked upon the home of his childhood; the bubbling fountains, the wide driveway winding up to the stately manor, the immaculate hedges.

When he heard soft cooing in the grounds, he gently ran his index finger down the black metal of the gate. It would be enough to signal any hapless Muggle’s presence to the wards; and more than enough to identify a wayward Legati son. 

It didn’t take long for Narcissa to arrive at the gate, a bundle of blankets in her arms. 

“Draco,”

“Hello, Mother,” 

It was the first time he’d seen her in person in five years, and yet, he could think of nothing else to say.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said stiffly. “You will not harm him.”

“I should never wish to,” Draco answered truthfully. “I simply wanted to see him. Is he well?”

Narcissa softened slightly. “He is,” she said. “Even so, Draco, you mustn’t come back here. Lucius would not allow it.” 

“He does always get his way, doesn’t he?” Draco asked rhetorically, leaning against the gate. His mother must have been feeling especially guilty; despite offering him nothing, the dark tendrils of the Legati had begun lifting from his skin and reaching towards her. 

“He did what needed to be done, and we must live with it.” Narcissa said brokenly. “And I will do whatever I must to protect my son from you. I’m sorry, Draco. _Crucio.”_

The tendrils reared back as Draco collapsed on the gravel outside his childhood home,head cracking against the ground as he convulsed in agony. 

When he gained enough sense of mind and control over his body to sit up again, she was gone, although she’d made further adjustments to the wards. The warded grounds shot sparks at him, blistering his skin until he apparated away. 

When he got home, he saw the burns across his arm spelled out a message: _You are unwanted here._

Draco wished he wasn’t so afraid to die. It seemed like it would be easier. 

He wished he wasn’t so lonely. Mostly, he couldn’t feel anything at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I wrote so any constructive criticism is very welcome.


End file.
